Inmate Number 3562
by trufflemores
Summary: 4.10 reaction, 4.11 spec. "I used to be somebody who saved lives. Now I'm just Barry Allen. Inmate number 3562." Warnings for: heavy themes, anxiety, depression, prison abuse.


**Author's Notes** : All aboard the pain train! I had sincerely hoped I'd written my last Barry-gets-imprisoned fic, but 4.10 shows that there is more to this storyline than even I've explored, including an eerie glimpse of prison life for Barry in the newest promo. I recommend treading lightly with the themes of this fic if you know they'll upset you, and partaking in my works "Dismantle" and "Reassemble" for a more thorough understanding of the prison arc storyline. Regardless: enjoy.

* * *

There's a lot of thinking time in prison.

A lot of sitting on a barren cot time, a lot of leaning on a cold damp wall time, a lot of pacing in a six-by-eight-foot cell, time, too. There's a lot of _time_ in prison. Its presence festers like pneumonia in Barry's chest, building and building and building until he can barely draw a breath. It can't leave, cloying in the air, echoing in the space like an abandoned cathedral, empty, everywhere. It needs to run freely, but the walls are sealed well. Nothing gets in, and nothing gets out.

Sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, Barry can still see the judge in front of him, reading off his sentence. It all boiled down to three words: _life without parole_. He waited to feel devastated, heartbroken, shattered – to feel like wailing or screaming or gnashing his teeth, fighting the guards, fighting for freedom – and instead felt only resignation. It was exactly what he expected would happen. He saw it coming. He didn't begrudge the guillotine's blade for gravity's inclinations, the executioner's hand for the judge's decision. He'd been sitting on the chopping block all day, aching to relieve his sore knees, to unbridle himself from the staring, the curious, the unflinching witnesses watching the trial proceed. It was almost a relief to hear the rope finally let go. After, when the guards took him away, his mind simply went blank.

Had he been seated on the jury, Barry knows he would have made the same decision. He too would have condemned the man who made no case to defend his actions, who sat blank-faced and mute in a courtroom as the prosecutor tore him to pieces. There was no logical reason to doubt the evidence. Mr. Slater relished the opportunity to pontificate about his alleged crime, selling the story so thoroughly that even Barry believed the audios he produced as "evidence R."

There were seventeen other damning pieces of evidence before the recordings, and two more after. The prosecution had everything it needed to clinch a conviction: fingerprints, footprints, skin samples, hair samples, restraining orders, security footage, phone recordings, even impact studies showing how the blade was driven into DeVoe's chest at an angle perfectly concurrently with a person who was six-foot-two.

Rather than despairing, Barry was simply astounded at the thoroughness of the DeVoes' execution. He almost couldn't believe it when he listened to the prosecutor explain how perfectly the blade lined up with someone Barry's height holding the knife at waist level before plunging it deep into DeVoe's chest. The entire scene had been pre-orchestrated, but Clifford and Marlize DeVoe had left nothing unambiguous behind. They wanted him hooked, lined, and sunk as many times as they could. Twenty hooks ultimately clinched into his skin, trying to pry a confession from him.

Nobody in the courtroom actually touched him – nobody needed to – but he still felt the pressure. Stoic and silent, he had refused to give into it, holding back the scream that wanted to wrench its way out of his chest. It would have lent more credence to a plea of insanity, but it wouldn't have helped his case much besides. And a plea of insanity would have caused far more harm than good, damning him to years of misery in the present and a lifetime of being treated like an utter pariah afterward.

No, he took justice in the only way he knew how to, standing up, head-on. He listened to the judge and kept his mouth shut, refusing to out himself for the sake of _maybe_ saving himself. There was no guarantee that the court would believe even The Flash's word – he still had no evidence, still had no idea what DeVoe's endgame was – but a confession would have guaranteed that the whole city knew who he was.

There also would have been no going back from it. It would have wrecked his life permanently, putting him on constant guard, sentencing every one of his loved ones to death. He would never stop running. And neither would any of them.

He couldn't do that – to himself, to his family, to anyone. He would be endangering his entire city, endangering any stranger who happened to be standing in line with him waiting for coffee, any officer who paused to chat with him at the precinct. Running away might keep himself safe, but it wouldn't protect anyone around him. They would all be at risk. All of them.

Better to die a hero than live long enough to become a villain, he thinks, closing his eyes. There's a headache throbbing behind them, and he only means to rest them for a few moments when the cell door is noisily sliding backwards. He has no idea if it's only been a few seconds – certainly feels longer, given the ache in his legs, rising unsteadily to his feet – or a few hours. He doesn't waste time asking, knowing they won't provide answers – it's one way to disorient people, given how dark it is here, how impossible it is to read the time.

Anything to get under the skin of the cold, the callous, and the cruel who find themselves behind these dark walls. With zombie-like intent, he walks in front of the guards. They don't shackle his feet this time, nor his hands, and he's grateful for that simple courtesy, even though his right ankle still throbs with every step. It's a memento from Fallout: the nuclear reaction heated up the anklet to brutal temperatures in seconds, searing his skin.

Despite his Speed-healing, his ankle still burns fiercely under his prison-issued uniform. Idly, he uses his left foot to rub it between steps. After two such maneuvers, the guard closest to him nudges him firmly, knock-it-off, and he does. Walking down the line of prisoners, Barry keeps his gaze forward, refusing to acknowledge their jackal taunts: " _Talking to you, bitch, cat got your tongue?_ " " _I remember your face, I'll never forget your face, you're gonna die, Barry Allen._ " " _Look what the cops dragged in._ " " _You're gonna rot, you copfucker._ "

He tries to block it all out, every second of it, putting a wall of grey between himself and reality. He especially tries not to think as he strips off his thin grey-blue shirt, his thin grey-blue pants, his thin grey-white boxers. Standing in a cold lonely room with a single officer, he looks away when the officer shines a flashlight in his face. Issuing brusque orders, the officer conducts the strip search with the sort of efficiency that butchers use to process meats, nothing personal, nothing human about it. Just making sure the prisoners stay in line. The roaches stay fearfully underfoot.

It seems to take a very long time. Barry's reflexes feel sluggish, and the flashlight beam rakes across him like a spotlight. He wants to shy away, to crawl into the stone walls, but he can't. He has to obey. So he does, goosebumps chilling on his flesh, humiliation burning his face until he is finally permitted to retrieve his clothes. His clothes.

They aren't his – his were confiscated early on, these are a standard prison-issued set. The material shares a more recent common ancestor with cardboard than cotton. It rasps over his skin and leaves him shivering with cold. Still, he doesn't complain – there's no point in complaining, no point in asking for more when so much can still be taken away – and the guard leads him out of the room.

Chaperoned by more guards, falling into line with a string of other prisoners, Barry enters a large, grey-walled dining hall. He doesn't even realize how hungry he is until he has a tray of prison food in front of him, three slices of bread, a glass of milk, some meats, some cheeses, your standard bare-minimum fare. He wolfs it down with an enthusiasm that almost belies his other life, and feels frustration and sadness bloom in his chest when he stares down at his empty tray after. He aches to ask for another serving, ten more servings; he'll eat a hundred if they'll let him, anything to make the prying, unforgiving ache in his belly subside.

 _You can survive this_ , he tells himself. Pushing himself to his feet, he sets the tray in the wash, and tries not to notice how loudly his stomach growls.

That night, entombed in darkness and silence, Barry finally breaks, breathing so quickly it hurts, scrabbling at the neckline of his shirt until he tears, finally, finally gasping for help, banging on the bars because he's suffocating, he's going to die. His fingers are curled around the cold metal and yanking on it like an animal when a guard finally arrives, barking something at him that he doesn't hear because no, no, no, this can't be happening, this can't –

Then something heavy and flat cracks across his knuckles and he reels, pulling his hands back to his chest. Shaking, he only just hears the guard growl a warning at him to shut up, and he clenches his jaw because how can he, how can he, something's wrong and he's going to die and the guard cracks his hand again, hard enough he yelps, and that finally gets him to retreat farther into the cell, farther into the darkness strangling him.

That first night, he doesn't sleep at all, sitting in a corner and falling to pieces.

At some indeterminate point, the guards arrive and escort him to the dining hall again without subjecting him to another strip search. He's so tired he almost doesn't care, feet dragging, ankle sorer than before. He catches a glimpse of the clock on the wall: 0620 hours. Breakfast, he surmises, peeling an orange slowly and taking a bite with equal care. Make it last. Make it count.

It doesn't last long enough, but it makes him feel a little more human.

Out in the yard under a slate grey-blue sky, Barry wonders if the prison hasn't somehow timed it so that prisoners are only exposed to the same monotonous colors. It doesn't matter; fresh air feels good, even if it still feels confined. Maybe it's the sheer quantity of prisoners, hundreds of them all milling around a tiny fenced-in space, that makes it feel suffocating, like the interior. Still, it's nice – nice enough that he finds something like resolve returning. _You can survive this._

Then he takes a step forward and stumbles over a foot that wasn't there, bad ankle catching, faltering and hitting the ground with a hard thump. Nobody claims ownership, and no further kicks come. Barry is vaguely grateful for that. Prying himself to his feet, he carefully puts distance between himself and a cluster of other prison with steely grey-blue eyes. He tries not to feel paranoid, but he feels the eyes on him, just as assuredly as he hears the jeers.

Mealtimes – of which there are three, 0600, 1200, and 1800 hours – define his entire day. There's a prison commissary, too, and somehow his account has money in it, and he feels so guilty that Joe and Iris must have put it there that he can't bring himself to use any of it at first. That compunction vanishes within two days; he's so hungry he has to restrain himself from using it all in one fell swoop. One thing is absolutely certain: ramen noodles have never tasted so good.

Still, he finds himself edgy, hoarding food whenever he can, not because he isn't hungry enough to clear his plate ten times over at each meal, but simply because he can't bear the endless intermissions between meals. He has to bite into something, to satiate his ever-growling stomach. They only let Joe and Iris put on so much money to his account a month; he can't afford to blow it all in one week, especially his first week in prison.

It's the tightest budget he's ever managed, constantly weighing the pros and cons of eating another bite, of postponing another indulgence. He needs food for energy, and he needs energy to stay sane, but he can't meet his nutritional needs, only his bare minimum. Just enough to tide him over, keep him going. His ribs still start to protrude noticeably under his prison uniform, and a permanent headache works its way into his skull, into his jaw.

He doesn't let it show, learns to crush down every emotion that isn't irritation, because irritation is hot-blooded and human, grounding and productive. It feels like victory when he shoves the prisoner who shoulders him, even if he gets eight hours in the hole for it. It feels like victory every time he glares back, lashes out in any small way. Venting. In some twisted way, it's the most social contact he gets.

A month passes – maybe longer. It's hard to count the days without a calendar, and the guards aren't forthcoming most of the time. He staggers on. When prompted by the guards to recite his name, he introduces himself as "prisoner 3562." Eventually, it shortens to just the number: "3562." Three, five, six, two. A locker combination, plus one, becomes his entire state of being, the culmination of his entire self.

 _Not Barry Allen. 3, 5, 6, 2._

He likes the way the numbers sound together, saying them to himself occasionally, a reminder, don't-forget, because they think it's arrogance if he can't remember to even look at the number on his uniform, emblazoned across his chest. Sometimes, red-eyed with exhaustion and cotton-mouthed with hunger, he just stares at the guard asking until they jab a nightstick into his stomach. Then he recites it, on command: "3562."

The others – the fellow nameless criminals he once helped put behind bars – memorize his number, just as he memorizes theirs. 1865 is sixty-two-years-old and more agreeable than most, having been in the system for several decades; 2789, a peer, trips him regularly in the yard, but never pushes the violence any farther. 0577 won't yank him out of the shower with bruising force if he obeys the towel-rule, over-the-wall-means-it's-reserved; 1191 couldn't give less of a fuck if he showers in the adjacent stall. 4010 trades with him: Barry performs his janitorial duties, and 4010 provides him with more ramen noodles.

It's far from an _amicable_ arrangement, but it's civil enough. 0033 stands out from the crowd: he has twice Barry's mass for exactly the same height, a powerful individual capable of real harm. Barry can see why he's been convicted of murder, and why he doesn't fear spending some time at Barry's table, trading slices of bread for Barry's oatmeal. 0033 shadows him for hours, days, weeks – never pushing for conversation, just being present. Unsettlingly present.

Barry knows something is wrong, but there is no way to avoid it: all of the prisoners eat at the same times, in the same place. Kicking up a fuss over nothing guarantees trouble, usually time in the hole. Given how humble his own cell, just forty-eight-square-feet is, the claustrophobic twenty-square-foot hole makes him shudder to think about. He doesn't push it. He lets it slide, convincing himself it's purely paranoia.

One night, pandemonium erupts.

Barry has no idea what causes it, and he's half-convinced that it's a dream as he sits up on his back-aching cot, staring at the smoke pouring outside of his cell. Guards and prisoners are shouting, banging on walls and hurling expletives and any artifacts in reach. A door clangs loudly, and the scene escalates, until suddenly there are prisoners everywhere.

On instinct, Barry reacts, Flashing and returning the men to their cells, putting distance between them and the guards. In what must be only a handful of real-time seconds, the chaos dissipates; for Barry, the scene drags out interminably, aware of eyes that cannot possibly see him at this speed inadvertently locking onto him.

He's so disconcerted that he forgets to put himself back in his cell when it's all over, and is the only prisoner left standing in the middle of the room when his freeze-frame shatters. A guard tasers him, and he crumples, howling in pain. Several others swarm, cuffing him and hauling him off to solitary confinement. Dragging his heels, he hears the wolfish, insidious howls of his cell mates up until the moment the dark door closes behind him.

Things get stricter after that; commissary opportunities fall off, yard time vanishes, any humble luxury afforded – TV time, gym time – experiences a cutback. The mood becomes tenser, the guards tenser still. Barry knows it is priming the climate for a second, more energetic, riot, but there's nothing he can do to diffuse the tension. He holds no rank, no authority here. All he can do is sit, and eat, and hope for the best.

The next time, chaos breaks out over lunch. He's scarfing down food in his usual frenetic fashion, always aware that things could change in an instant, lockdown or an altercation cutting his mealtime short, when a small argument between a handful of prisoners turns explosive, spreading rapidly across the room. The guards ruthlessly suppress the rioters at the periphery, but it's hard to regain control over more than 100 prisoners simultaneously. Barry, staying determinedly out of the fray, is forcibly drawn into it.

He feels someone's hands underneath his arms yanking him from his seat, ears ringing loudly as he's pulled into a tight hold. Standing in front of him, 0033, holding a knife he should not possibly own, a _shiv_ , stabs upward without a word. It sinks into Barry's ribs, and he cannot breathe at all when it unsheathes and sinks in again, and again, and again, stab-stab-stab-stab- _BANG_.

0033 drops with a roar of pain, and the arms behind him disappear. Barry hits the floor hard, cold all over except where he is burning with heat. Fingers trembling, he presses them over his bleeding abdomen, feeling blood trickling from half a dozen wounds. _It's okay_ , he tells himself, even as his vision flickers, his mind refusing to embrace the possibility that any of this is even remotely okay. _Just stay awake, it'll be fine._

But sleep – the merciful notion of unconsciousness – tugs on him. He wavers, eyelids sinking shut, and only groans softly when he feels hands on him. Somebody shoves a wadded-up cloth directly against his abdomen, and he hisses. They pin him down forcefully, and he thrashes reflexively in their grip, trying to break free, but they're too strong.

The fight doesn't last long; indeed, his fight for consciousness carries on mere moments more before he tumbles down the cliffside into perfect darkness.

. o .

His head hurts. His stomach growls. Then his stomach hurts, too.

Groaning, Barry dares to open his eyes, vision blurry and partial through hooded eyelids. Confusion makes him try to sit up, but he's pinned to the surface he's lying on with straps around his wrists. Huffing softly in disagreement, he grimaces as fire erupts across his belly. Ow. _Ow_.

"You'll be happy to know they've been transferred," a familiar voice says.

Barry turns his head slowly, and finds Captain Singh, of all people, sitting in a chair near the wall. "The prisoners responsible," he adds. "Caught it all on surveillance." Then, frowning in concern, he asks, "Are you all right?"

An ache builds in Barry's chest that has nothing to do with the physical pain. He cannot speak. "Yeah, no, I know," Singh sighs, rubbing his mouth. "I'm sorry."

 _I know._ Barry closes his eyes again. He doesn't mean to, but he must fall asleep, because when he opens his eyes again, Singh is gone. Instead, he can see a guard outside his hospital door, and a nurse changing out his IV. "Doesn't work on me," he slurs to her, before letting consciousness step out again.

The third time he awakes, he feels stronger, more whole than he has in weeks. Months? How long has it been since he last tasted freedom? Struggling upright, he finds himself still restrained to the same soft surface – like, but not identical to, his cot – and opens his eyes instead. Staring up at a blank white ceiling, he realizes, _I'm not in prison_.

It brings him less joy than he hoped for. If anything, it only seems to intensify the despair in his chest. Tears form in his eyes; he closes them to hide them. Then he hears the same familiar voice from before: "Barry?" Responding to the tone rather than the word itself, Barry opens his eyes again, narrow and hurting. "I had to step out," Singh explains, taking a seat near him. "You look better. Your color's more natural."

Barry makes a noninformative sound. He can't tell. He trusts Singh's judgment. "Do you remember what happened?" Barry closes his eyes and sighs. He doesn't want to. He really doesn't want to talk about it. He'd rather sleep for a few more hours, make the time in prison go a little faster, except – he's not in prison. Slowly, he opens his eyes again and makes a more affirmative noise. "You weren't exactly _lucky_ , but you'll heal."

Story of his life. He lets his eyelids slide shut again. "Would you like to see Joe? Or Iris?" He blinks, startled, and tilts his head towards Singh. "They're outside," Singh explains. "I can have them admitted."

His voice rasps with disuse: "Yes."

He wants to sit up, to make himself more presentable – as if anyone can look _presentable_ in a hospital gown – but he can't move much, not with the way there are still knives in his chest and straps of leather around his wrists, binding him to the gurney. The best he can do is swallow a few shallow breaths of air between Singh's departure and reappearance, shepherding Joe and Iris into the room.

"Barry," Iris breathes, and he feels caught in a dream, fingers flexing on his hand to reach for hers. She slides it into his grasp, her grip smooth and firm. "Hey." He strokes his thumb over her knuckles, marveling at how soft her skin is. His own feels cracked and tight, endeavoring to be part of the stiff grey-blue walls surrounding him in prison. "Hey, honey," she says, reaching up to brush his hair out of his face – he doesn't know, and doesn't particularly care to know, when it got long enough for him to have bangs again. "We're here."

"Captain, could we have the room?" Joe asks, somewhat gruffly, laying a gentle palm on Barry's blanket-draped foot. A blanket. He reaches out to feel it, amazed at the simple luxury.

"Afraid not, Joe," Singh says. "It's either myself or another guard. Policy." He sounds genuinely apologetic. "Whatever you say won't leave it," he assures.

Joe's hand tightens incrementally on Barry's foot. "It's important," he bargains.

Singh mulls that over for a long moment. He steps over to the door, speaking with the guard outside it, before sliding it shut. "That's the best I can do," he says.

"Joe," Barry rasps, because he can tell where this is going. "It's okay." Nodding a little, his grip loosening on Iris' hand, he repeats, "It's okay."

"I know you're The Flash," Singh adds, startling Barry. Standing near him, Singh admits in a low voice, "It would be hard _not_ to notice, Barry."

"Sorry," he says.

Singh shakes his head. "Don't be. I know why you did it."

"How did you find out, Captain?" Joe asks slowly. He doesn't take a seat yet, but Iris pulls over Singh's chair, keeping her grip on Barry's hand. He's grateful for it.

"I've known since the second week The Flash was in operation. You were called 'The Streak' back then," he adds with an acknowledging nod at Barry. "The concurrent absences made me suspicious, the – quirks. One day I came up to ask for a report and I saw your hand just – vibrating. When it stopped, you were holding a centrifuge tube, all of its contents perfectly separated. I almost couldn't believe it. I wouldn't have believed it, if I hadn't seen it. I didn't know how to broach it with you then – figured you would tell me," he adds with a sort of dry smile. "But I left it alone."

"Thank you for not firing me," Barry says, borderline nonsensically, because he's reeling. Singh knew. For four years, Singh _knew_.

"I know you didn't murder Clifford DeVoe," Singh adds. Barry's heart pounds. Relief floods him. "Like you, I'm struggling to formulate a way to prove it."

"We're getting there," Joe says.

Iris squeezes his hand gently to soften the implicit blow: _we're not there yet_.

He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face or in his tone. "That's great."

"We'll have you placed under better security," Singh says. Barry looks away, unable to meet his eyes as he listens to the pronouncement. "This won't happen again."

Stiffly, almost bitterly, Barry asks, "How can you say that?"

Singh doesn't respond. Joe says, "Bar—"

"Sorry," he interjects, hand twitching in its hold, aching to reach up and rub his neck. "I know it's not your fault."

"You have every right to be angry," Singh assures, "but I will not let this happen again, Barry."

Barry. It's weird to hear him say it. The response wants to roll off his tongue: _my name is 3562._ He doesn't verbalize it, afraid of the looks Joe and Iris will give him. "Okay," he says instead, softly, abdomen aching abominably. "I trust you."

"I'm sorry we've betrayed that trust," Singh says.

Barry shrugs a little. It makes him wince. "When do I go back?"

No one wants to answer. He closes his eyes again.

Iris says, "Rest. You'll feel better when you wake up."

. o .

He does feel better, if only for a brief time. Stomach already healing over rapidly, he is able to wolf down a few bites of non-hospital food brought in by Joe, as well as every scrap of medically-issued nutrition allotted to him. He eats without complaint, taking what he is offered without questioning what it is or voicing a preference. If it's calories, he'll take it.

It's a strange time after, when Joe and Iris are finally ushered away and the guards return with Singh. He misses all but the tail end of the doctor's conversation that he is fit for release; he doesn't miss the leather cuffs clicking off. The officers are efficient, hauling him upright and handing him a prison-issued uniform. They watch like hawks as he stands carefully and slowly replaces the hospital gown. Singh steps in to help, getting the shirt over his head for him when extending his arms that far proves difficult.

At last, properly dressed, he is ready for the shackles they put on him, between his ankles and wrists. Singh stays near, but he lets the guards handle the transport process, half-leading, half-forcing Barry to move along with them. His legs are a little weak after being stuck on a bed for what amounts to almost a full day, but they support his weight, and it's all he needs of them.

The curious, the inquisitive, the unsubtle watch as the murderer Barry Allen is led through the facility back to the Iron Heights transport vehicle.

. o .

Back at prison, he has time, but it's not healing – it's _festering_.

The wounds in his abdomen still ache deeply, despite the unblemished skin. He walks gingerly, flinching from anything that comes near his shoulder. He deliberately sits against a wall at mealtimes and refuses to look for 0033, no longer present, eating quickly and without interest. He sucks on oranges for the little bit of life that they offer, a rich, fruity vitality that contrasts sharply with the soggy bread and grey-blue walls.

The routine carries on, uninterrupted, even though his insomnia racks up the same claim: uninterrupted. A day, two days, three days, a full week. He staggers drunkenly by the seventh consecutive night of no sleep, succumbing to a casual shove. The inmate responsible howls in fury as he is led off to the hole. Dazed and sore, Barry doesn't move at first. At last, a guard puts a booted toe against Barry's side and orders, "Up." He only needs to press in a little to aggravate still-tender wounds; Barry struggles back to his feet, still swaying, and falls asleep at the table over his empty tray, curled protectively around it.

Day in, day out, with no calendar to mark the time. It's no surprise that prisoners draw on the walls, chalking up the days. It offers some subtle reprieve from the monotony, the tedious sense of never knowing what is coming next. It makes it seem like there is an escape, instead of an interminable, all-oppressive world. Fitting its reputation, Iron Heights does not provide any writing materials in the cells; writing on the walls is restricted to small stones one carves out and uses to carve letters.

He presses his hand to his father's name, wondering how many days, weeks of effort it took to carve each letter. The mere gesture – _I was here_ – makes his throat tight, and some nights it is everything he can do not to scream in rage, in anguish, over the fact that his father spent fifteen _years_ here.

When the guards permit him to see his family, he doesn't share their hopefulness that release is imminent. It's hard to share their optimism through the glass. It's hard to share their certainty when everything about his new life seems set in stone.

Days pass. Weeks pass. He finds rest when he can and sluggishness when he can't. He eats everything on his tray without protest, rationing out his commissary fund to last the full month, each burst of calories helping him along rather than sustaining him full-time. He doesn't think much about life outside the walls, even though he has lots of thinking time. He spends time in the yard, time in the library, time doing laundry for his prison job. Time does not move in prison, but stands still. A day is a week is a month is a year.

The occasional casual cruelty no longer falters his step or gives rise to the same sort of aggrieved frustration that it did before. He takes it, falling to his knees and pushing himself back up before a guard can haul him to his feet. On request, he recites his prison number. Without protest, he submits to strip searches, wishing he could at least close his eyes as the latex-gloved guard invaded every shred of privacy he had to his name. He showers when he finds opportunities and no sooner. He does not, cannot, shave.

Over time, he becomes the proper prison animal, groomed to survive in a six-by-eight cell and play nicely with hundreds of other prisoners in group settings. There are some who claim innocence, like himself, and others who brag about their exploits. Most are reticent, refusing to offer information, hiding behind the anonymity of a number: 1296, 6301, 5500, 3509, 4148…

And then there's him. 3562.

He doesn't believe it when the guards arrive to take him for the retrial. It happens in a dream – four days without sleep, it's easy to imagine, his feet dragging with their shackles as he is led through the labyrinth back to the world. The air is thicker here, suffocating, and he shies away from it, bowing his head to evade the prying camera eyes.

He meets with Cecile first. She shows him the evidence, the damning evidence, with a soft solemnity that belies great relief. "We got him," she reassures.

He twitches in his chains, lowering his head to scratch the underside of his scruffy chin. It's a dream he's had more than once; he doesn't play along, waiting for it to pass like all the others. Some felt real, too, like he would wake up in his own bed instead of the familiar prison cot.

He goes along with the song-and-dance, shuffling into view. To the delight of onlookers, he stumbles, stirring gasps of surprise; he rights himself without embarrassment, his chains a great nuisance to walk in. He wishes his dreams were at least not so accurate to include them; he wouldn't regret a modified version of this scene where he was truly a free man, tall and strong and under his own power.

Instead, he stands before a new judge and lets Cecile plead the new case. Piece after piece of evidence arises, painting a sinister picture. He doesn't know how they obtained it, but he never inquires in these dreams, because it is too painful to hope that they could transfer to reality. Impassively, he listens to the trial carry on for four, five, six hours.

He glances at the clock at some point, anxious because the 1200-hour meal has already passed – they offered him food, but he was too sick to his stomach to take it; he never eats in these dreams, knowing that the indulgences will only make him feel hungrier later – and the 1800-hour meal is rapidly approaching. He can't miss dinner, too. He just can't.

He does. The trial carries on.

At last, fully seven hours after it began, the defense rests.

Barry leans his head on his folded arms and aches to fall asleep, even in dreams, which amuses him in some foggy corner of his mind. _I'm so tired my dreams are tired_ , he thinks, and then he disappears for a time, reappearing with a warm hand on his shoulder and a soft voice for him only, hey, sweetie, stay awake. He doesn't want to, wants this whole circus to be over, tired of being the main attraction. He'd rather get a knife to his gut than sit another hour in the courtroom, but he has no choice in the matter, so he sits, and he waits, and he does not flinch when he is called before the stand again for sentencing.

Surreptitiously, he pinches his forearm hard, aching to wake up. He doesn't want to hear it, not again, not _again_ , but he has no control here. Solemn and stiff-legged, he walks up to the judge as far as he is permitted by the guards and chains, and waits for his judgment. Looking the woman in the eye, he has the impression that something tragic has happened, and wonders why he doesn't feel sadder about it.

 _Because it happened to me_ , he realizes, her words washing over him, words like _revoke_ and _innocent_. The guards step forward, and the shackles are removed. He flinches a little, anticipating worse bonds, but the guards step back, and he realizes there are no bonds coming. It puts a lump in his throat as he looks down at his hands, shaking slightly. He pinches his forearm again, and still he stays in the dream that is not a dream.

 _This is real_ , he realizes. Cecile puts a hand on the small of his back and guides him out of the courtroom. Joe flanks him. Iris is near, and so are Cisco, and Caitlin, and even Ralph. Cameras flash in his face, capturing every startled, disbelieving expression that crosses his face, bearded and lowered. He's innocent, and he knows he's innocent, but he doesn't feel innocent anymore, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

They step outside the courtroom and he full-stops, cannot move a step farther, an emotion like grief welling up in his chest as he realizes that it's over.

It's over.

Fourteen weeks, ninety-eight-days-later, 3562 is a free man.

. o .

Everything about life outside of prison jars him.

It's so bright, and _loud_. Staying with Iris at Joe's house, unable to stand his own apartment, he guts the hall closet, Flashing everything out of it in a single burst of activity before stuffing himself in it. The bare walls make his heart pound, because even they are not like prison, but when he sits on the floor, back to one, and closes his eyes, he can almost pretend it is home. He falls asleep like that, a horrible crick in his neck making itself known when he finds consciousness again hours later. He keeps his breathing low and quiet, undetectable, but it doesn't last long: Iris finds him, pushing back the door and looking at him. He keeps his head down so he doesn't have to look at her expression, wrapping his arms around his knees and resting his chin on top of them.

She kneels beside him and he unthinkingly makes room, so she slides into the small space beside him and shuts the closet door again.

In the perfect darkness, hip-to-hip, they sit together for a long time. It doesn't matter how long; time doesn't pass in prison. He reaches out tentatively and finds her hand, holding onto it. She squeezes it back, and he slowly comes back to himself, cautiously accepting the new reality.

He eats without speaking and only at the three designated hours, unable to force down a bite outside of those temporal spaces for fear of remonstrance. He gets cold easily – _you're not keeping up with your caloric intake_ – but he only wears a single layer of clothes, refusing jackets and gloves and any manner of accoutrement. He gets overwhelmed in public spaces, shying back to dark corners whenever he can. He struggles to even shower in peace, gaze drawn to another towel in the room, a fist in his gut a reminder that he has to follow _every_ rule here, including prisoner-ordained rules.

Somehow, in that dreamlike daze that has become more familiar to him by the day, he suits up as The Flash and goes out into the field, stopping crimes-in-progress. He does it without thinking, only shying as though burned when he realizes what he's doing. _Damning another person._ Branding another number, as assuredly as the guards who hand out the uniforms. They do bad things, but he struggles to swallow the idea that they deserve what's coming to them.

He isn't proud to say that he lets some of them go, that he creates problems for Team Flash when he refuses to act in the heat of a moment. He can't, because he runs cold, now, and he doesn't want to be the juror and executioner, the hand behind the blade. Justice – justice isn't a word to him anymore, but a feeling, a grey-blue cell that is as wide as he is tall and just two feet longer, a mind-numbing routine without end, casual violence without cause.

 _I'm losing my mind,_ he thinks, sitting on the couch, staring at his own hands and feeling the shackles that aren't there anymore. Hugging himself, he hunches over, and silently repeats it. _I'm losing my goddamn mind._

. o .

Counseling.

He goes not because he wants to, but because he _has_ to: his tether on sanity is so thin he knows he'll become the monster they imprisoned if he doesn't find a way to free himself from it.

It takes – a while, far longer than he'd hoped.

But he gets there.

. o .

 _Six months later._

"Someone's working late," Iris muses as Barry spins in his chair to face her, smiling a little. Luke crawls out from under his chair, trampling over to say hi, all fuzzy corgi joy. He's been a godsend, the best suggestion therapy has ever given him: _have you ever considered an emotional support animal?_ "You okay?" she asks, hefting Luke into her arms.

"Yeah, just – wrapping up some casework," he says, resting a hand on a pile of papers. "I have the time," he adds a little wryly, holding up a vibrating hand, indicating that place of stillness they both know. He sets it back on the desk, turning to the papers and then back to her, rising from his chair. "I could go for a break," he admits, sidling over.

"Mm," she muses, setting Luke down and sliding her arms around Barry's waist. "It's nice to see you happy again."

"It's nice to be happy again," he says seriously. "Thanks for not giving up on me."

She squeezes his waist gently, pressing her ring against his back lightly. "I'm never giving up on you," she promises.

Leaning his forehead against hers, he closes his eyes, basking in her presence – and huffing a laugh when he feels Luke sit on his feet.

His life is extraordinary, but it's the most ordinary of things – being married to Iris Ann West-Allen, being in possession of a corgi puppy named Luke Skywalker – that keep him grounded, and happy, and _alive._

At the end of the day, he doesn't live for the next struggle or even the next triumph of justice over evil.

He lives for the love in his life.

And just in that room, he's surrounded by it.


End file.
